


The Forlorn Foreman

by knockoutmouse



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Canon Disabled Character, Canonical Child Abuse, Coffee, Headcanon: Henchperson of Indeterminate Gender is autistic, Henchperson is called Rory, Loneliness, Morally Ambiguous Character, Mutual Pining, Nonbinary Character, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 06:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15188792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knockoutmouse/pseuds/knockoutmouse
Summary: Set during/after The Miserable Mill.While helping Count Olaf with his scheme at the lumbermill, Fernald finds himself getting lonely and thinking of Rory.





	The Forlorn Foreman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WickedCinnamonRoll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedCinnamonRoll/gifts).



Fernald couldn’t sleep. As the new foreman at Lucky Smells Lumbermill, he’d been given his own room, which he supposed was a perk, considering that the rest of the workers slept in a dormitory together. Even so, his room was the size of a closet, the mattress was hard, the blankets thin and scratchy. 

None of those was the reason behind his sleeplessness. 

He couldn’t stop thinking of Rory. He shouldn’t, he knew; he should just put them out of his mind and go to sleep. After all, it wasn’t as if there even was anything between them, not really. It had been only a series of looks exchanged, a few times that Rory’s hand had rested on his arm a fraction of a second too long when they’d moved past him, a certain moment on the shore of Lake Lachrymose—

A moment, during the storm, when they’d stood at the edge of the lake and looked into each other’s eyes. Rory had placed their hand on Fernald’s chest, their palm pressed over his heart, as if to feel its nervous pounding, and moved closer—and then, at the sound of footsteps on pavement, the two of them had hastily moved apart as Olaf rounded the corner of a nearby building. Rory’s expression had returned to blankness; Fernald’s, to something approximating hostility. 

No words had been exchanged between them. It wasn’t as if anything had _happened_. And yet, Fernald found himself unable to stop replaying the moment in his mind.

He hadn’t had a chance to speak with Rory alone since then. Instead, he’d been immediately ordered to accompany Olaf to Paltryville, while the rest of the troupe had returned to the city.

Now, lying alone in the dark, Fernald felt a longing, an emptiness in his chest that almost hurt. He wished Rory was there with him. He closed his eyes, and imagined again the scene on the lakeshore. Imagined how, if they hadn’t been interrupted, he would have leaned forward, taken Rory into his arms, and let his lips brush over theirs—imagined how they might have sighed and relaxed into his touch.

He turned over in bed and adjusted his pillow. It didn’t help. He wished he wasn’t alone in bed. It wasn’t even that he wanted anything sexual, but someone to hold close—perhaps, in some way, to reassure him that despite what he was doing, the acts he committed in service of Olaf, he was still redeemable—still worthy of being loved, although he did not think of it in exactly those terms. And besides, Rory was always nice to him, and never shouted at him the way Olaf did, and in fact, they tended to flinch when people shouted, so Fernald had made an effort not to if they were around, although he did forget sometimes. And once, when the troupe, at Olaf’s insistence, had stayed long after rehearsal had ended to drink red wine with him and listen to his recitation of numerous soliloquies from Al Funcoot’s latest romantic drama, after a couple glasses of wine, Fernald had dozed off and woken up to find himself slumped over against Rory’s shoulder, and not only did they not seem to mind, but their presence, their closeness, felt comforting. 

Eventually, Fernald fell into a fitful sleep.

When he got up early the next morning, he was in a terrible mood, and decided to be extra unpleasant to the Baudelaires. Even so, when he’d tripped Klaus and sent him sprawling to the floor, he’d felt an instant of unwelcome panic, fearing that he’d actually caused him harm, but he’d quickly rationalized that it was necessary to get him to Dr. Orwell’s office. 

The next night alone in his room was even worse. And Olaf’s disguise was awakening some confusing feelings in him. It wasn’t that Fernald liked Olaf as a person, but when he looked at Olaf-as-Shirley, he couldn’t deny that he felt a certain amount of attraction. Between that and his feelings for Rory, perhaps there were the beginnings of a pattern to be found somewhere, but he didn’t feel the need to examine it further. 

He was glad when they finally left the mill, even if they were fleeing from the authorities. 

After he arrived back in the city, he went home, showered to cleanse himself of sawdust and the scent of hot wood, and then he called Rory and invited them over. 

Fernald tried to straighten up his apartment before they arrived. He wasn’t the best housekeeper, but he’d managed to get the main room into somewhat presentable condition before they knocked on his door—at least the trash was mostly picked up and the dirty clothes had been kicked into the bedroom and hidden behind the closed door. 

His heart began racing at the sound of a knock at the door. He opened it to find Rory holding two paper coffee cups. 

“Hey,” they greeted him with what, for them, passed for enthusiasm. “I brought you tea. Jasmine green. I hope that’s all right?” they asked anxiously.

“Thank you,” said Fernald in surprise. “You shouldn’t have.” He took the cup in both hooks, stepping aside to let Rory come inside. 

“You do know I live above a coffee shop, right?” said Rory. 

Fernald hadn’t known, but it didn’t surprise him in the least. Rory _would_ live above a coffee shop. Right now, they were standing in the center of his living room, looking around as if lost. Suddenly the room seemed too small with two people in it. 

“You know you’re allowed to sit down?” said Fernald. 

With a last look around, as if they found themselves somewhere fascinating and impressive, rather than in Fernald’s mundane, rather dusty apartment, Rory took a seat on the battered daybed that Fernald had reassembled into a sofa for just this occasion. 

Fernald sat down next to them, took a drink, and nearly choked. Whatever this was, it was _not_ green tea—it was overpoweringly bitter.

“What _is_ this?”

“Hmm?” Rory looked over at Fernald, then at the cup they still held. “Oh no, I gave you the wrong cup. That one’s coffee. My bad.” 

They switched cups with Fernald. Suspiciously, he took a tiny sip. 

“Better?” asked Rory. 

“Much,” said Fernald with relief. 

Rory took a drink of their coffee. “So,” they said, “what’s up?”

Fernald shrugged. 

“I mean, you asked me to come over,” they explained. “I didn’t know if there was anything you needed, or--?”

“Oh,” said Fernald. “No, nothing in particular. I just—you know, I was at that lumbermill, and it was sort of—I was by myself,” he said. “Didn’t really have anyone to talk to.”

“You were lonely,” Rory rephrased, not unsympathetically.

“You could put it that way,” said Fernald. “I suppose I’ve gotten used to having you around,” he said quickly, and took large gulp of his tea to avoid looking at Rory just then. 

“Really?” asked Rory. “Usually people tell me that I talk too much.”

“I don’t think so,” said Fernald truthfully, setting aside his cup. “Honestly, it was pretty boring without you there.”

“It wasn’t so great here, either,” confessed Rory, fidgeting with their coffee cup. 

“Did you miss me?” asked Fernald, half-jokingly.

Rory paused, about to take a drink, and met his eyes over their coffee cup. 

“Yes,” they said. 

That brought a rush of heat to Fernald’s cheeks. 

“I missed you, too,” he said quietly. He went on: “I hope this isn’t creepy, but while I was gone, I—well, I thought about you a lot.”

“I’ve been thinking about you, too,” said Rory, setting down their coffee. They shifted closer to Fernald on the sofa, rested their hand on his prosthetic, and then, apparently reconsidering, moved up to gently take hold of his wrist. “Actually, I spent a lot of time wishing we’d had a couple more minutes alone back at the lake.”

“That’s funny,” said Fernald. “I was thinking the same thing.” 

He leaned in and kissed them.


End file.
